


And I Want to Live

by Plath_and_Laster



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! GX
Genre: Character Study, Coping, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Extended Metaphors, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, Introspection, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28640580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plath_and_Laster/pseuds/Plath_and_Laster
Summary: Fubuki has finally been returned to them, but his ghost still haunts the Obelisk Blue dormitories.
Relationships: Marufuji Ryou | Zane Truesdale/Tenjouin Fubuki | Atticus Rhodes
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	And I Want to Live

When Fubuki was gone, Ryou would hear him singing.

Fubuki sang more often than he was silent, so it was always easy to imagine it, easy to hallucinate the soft, pretty notes as they hung overhead and tormented him. The non-existent sound would wake him from sleep sometimes, yanking him from one nightmare into the next, because no matter where he was, Fubuki would not be there. He would startle to an empty bed, a silent room, a cold, dark void with no one there to hold him close and sing him back to sleep. His auditory hallucinations were a pathetic, painful substitution.

Tonight, he still awakens to an empty bed, still shaking and sweating as he tries to catch his breath. Tonight, he still wishes he wasn’t alone, still wishes that he’d done better, still wishes that he’d _somehow_ known to make Fubuki stay with him on that fateful afternoon instead of letting him go and trusting he would return. Tonight, he still hears the singing, and it still hurts just as much.

The difference is that, tonight, Fubuki isn’t gone anymore.

He hasn’t had his memories back for very long, so Ryou hasn’t quite readjusted to his true presence yet. He’s happy to have him home—more than that, he’s overjoyed, scarcely able to believe that he gets to spend this time with someone so precious to him again. He may have eventually gotten accustomed to the pervasive weight that clung to him while Fubuki was absent, may have even begun to accept that his crushed lungs and deadened heart would never work the way they did when Fubuki was still with him, but that doesn’t mean he’d _liked_ it. Having him back where he belongs is all that Ryou could’ve asked for.

Despite being with them, though, Fubuki isn’t entirely... _here_. He’s somewhere Ryou can’t quite see, emotionally and spiritually caught between two dimensions and all the more desperately alone for it. Like a ghost, he wanders the halls of the Obelisk Blue dormitories, aimless yet obsessive as though searching for something he can no longer find. Like a ghost, lost, drifting, displaced in a world that had long-since moved on without him.

But Ryou hadn’t moved on. Asuka hadn’t moved on. They’d fought to find him, to bring him home, and now that he _is_ home Ryou has no plans of letting that go. Of letting _Fubuki_ go.

Not again.

He gets out of bed, moving to unlock his door and peer out into the hallway. Curfew mandates that the dormitory be dark and silent this time of night, save for the moonlight spilling in through the intermittent windows. Still, he lingers. Holds his breath, counts his heartbeats, and listens.

He can hear him from the common area.

Ryou shuts the door behind him and pads down the hallway, following the faint sound of Fubuki’s voice. It’s almost haunting from this distance, like a Siren’s call as it filters up the spiral staircase and through the walls. If he can hear it from his own room, he knows that everyone else can hear it, too, but he doubts that any of them will say more than a word or two about it. His peers may know nothing compared to what he’s learned, but they know enough by the strange behavior alone to be uncomfortably aware that there’s simply no way to approach what has been altered so irreparably.

Their instructors are even less sure of how to respond than the students are, probably because of the opposite problem: they know too much. Ryou remembers waiting outside of Samejima’s office as Fubuki told the adults everything he could recall of his experiences following his untimely departure—he remembers jumping as the door banged open to reveal a weeping Chronos and a visibly distressed Ayukawa. Even Samejima had been pale-faced, his words uncharacteristically halting as he’d guided Fubuki from his office with a steadying hand on his shoulder. They’d both smiled when they saw him sitting there, but Samejima’s was too strained and Fubuki’s was too small.

That same night, curled up in Ryou’s bed, wearing one of Ryou’s shirts, Fubuki had proceeded to tell him the truth, too. Ryou had rubbed his back the entire time, his motions almost mechanical as the story his lover recounted rapidly became worse and worse with every word. Fubuki was in tears by the time he was done, unable to speak anymore, and all Ryou could do was hold him and hope that he didn’t start crying, too, even though he desperately wanted to.

_How could this happen to someone like him?_

Since Fubuki recovered his memories, Ryou has wanted to do a lot more than just cry. He wants to scream, to lash out at something he can’t touch, to destroy something that is beyond his comprehension. How _dare_ this world do that to Fubuki. How dare _anything_ take him away and hurt him and tear him apart until he was a mere shadow of who he used to be. The sheer _unfairness_ of it all is devastating, and it keeps him awake at night, lying alongside an equally sleepless Fubuki as they stroke each other’s hair and wait for morning to come.

**_Why_ ** _did this happen?_

He can see it all. Every time Fubuki smiles, every time he laughs, every time he does something stupid or silly or just plain _ridiculous_ —it makes Ryou forget, just for a moment, that he’s hurting. That something is terribly, terribly wrong.

At times, Fubuki almost seems to forget, too. Maybe he actually manages to when he’s surrounded by his new friends, when he’s with his darling little sister, when he gets the chance to appreciate that he’s alive. But then the smiles fade too quickly, the laughter isn’t quite bright enough, and the ridiculous antics just don’t feel the same. Fubuki is still as genuine, loving, and obnoxiously carefree as ever, but there’s a persistent shadow that clings to him even when he appears for all the world like he’s never suffered for an instant. 

_(He’s always been such a good actor. Ryou never thought he would see him use those skills for something like **this** , though.)_

Even now, when he sings, it feels like a lament of the damned rather than something to rejoice in. There’s a sense of desperation present in his vocals that Ryou cannot stand, a distinct feeling of crying out for something that can never be regained. Even though the haunting tune is more a reflective meditation than a wail from beyond, it still speaks of something horrifying, and Ryou takes little comfort in hearing his voice beyond the simple fact that it means he’s still here.

The sound is clearer now that he’s reached the bottom of the staircase, and he lingers there on the last few steps for a moment, listening. Watching. The common area is dark and empty sans the moonlight coming in through some of the arched windows, and the lone specter come to rest at the grand piano.

As usual, he isn’t really playing it. He’ll tap a chord every now and then, the same one on repeat. If it had been anyone else, Ryou would’ve thought that they were trying to stay in-tune as they sang, but Fubuki has perfect pitch. He doesn’t need to do that.

But what he does need is a tether, a lifeline, a way to stay present even in the midst of an obvious trance. No matter where he goes or how long he lingers elsewhere, Fubuki always comes back to that piano. This is always where he ends up, and this is always where Ryou finds him. Trying aimlessly to ground himself. Searching hopelessly for a way to release the feelings trapped inside of him. Wondering if maybe one more time, _one more time_ , will be enough to scrub the memories from his mind, his skin, his heart.

Eventually, painstakingly, the song’s final declaration wavers into nothingness. _I must get out of this. So I must get out of this._

The ensuing silence hovers, and Ryou holds his breath. There’s always a question at this time: will he start over again? Or will he play something else? Will he sink deeper into his own thoughts or will he shake himself loose, mustering every last bit of his brightness and strength to take one step away?

_I must get out of this._

Fubuki taps one key. One note.

One note, then two, three, four—a small motif, a cluster of sounds tripping out over each other in a pretty, if not slightly melancholy, melody. He plays it haltingly at first, then repeats it as if trying to recall how it really goes. By the third time, the notes come smoothly, a short yet unfailingly recognizable pattern that Ryou hasn’t heard like this since Fubuki disappeared over a year ago.

He feels a lump grow in his throat at the sound of it, because that’s _his_ song.

For his seventeenth birthday, Fubuki had composed him an entire piece based around that little motif. The theme, like the whole song, was unique to him, although Fubuki had come up with it _long_ before he’d managed to finish the rest of the work. Ryou almost found it funny that, even after all that time of hearing it over the preceding semesters (on every possible musical instrument Duel Academy and its student body had to offer), he’d never known it was _his_ until Fubuki had played it for him on this very piano.

He’d never forgotten how it sounded, either, but the muted memories simply don’t do the motif the justice it deserves, nor do they instill the same swell of emotions in his chest. That song is an expression of Fubuki’s heart, of his soul, of his adoration for someone he had formed an unbreakable bond with. To Ryou, Fubuki playing it now is a sign that he’s acknowledging his presence, both in reality and in this strange, twilit realm he’s been trapped in since he came back.

_I must get out of this._

Ryou takes that as his cue to approach and silently descends the remainder of the staircase. He comes up beside the bench as Fubuki fumbles through a few more measures of his song, and he swallows a little harder than usual at the fractured, uneven melodies. It has never sounded like that before. It hurts to think that Fubuki’s experiences in the world of darkness have taken even this from him.

_Dueling. Music. His light. His happiness. His future._

The discordant tones stop, and Ryou looks to see that Fubuki is gazing up at him, his expression unfathomable. His eyes are different in the dusky shadows, darker and more vulnerable—in stark contrast, his face is unusually pale, only serving to emphasize his ghostly appearance. He looks drowned, lost in every sense of the word, and Ryou feels his heart clench painfully.

_You were radiant,_ he wants to remind him, wants to see that dazzling smile he’d learned to love so much. _You were bright and beautiful, and you never lingered in the darkness like this before. You were my sun, don’t you remember?_

_Fubuki, don’t you remember?_

But he can’t say those things. Not like that. Fubuki knows better than anyone else how broken he is, how much work he has to do if he ever wants to reclaim himself. He doesn’t need any other voices sowing those painful reminders and inescapable doubts in his mind—his own is quite loud enough already, telling him _you deserved it. Your life is over. You weren’t supposed to come back._

_You don’t belong here anymore._

So Ryou buries the unwelcome thoughts and reaches out instead, brushing Fubuki’s bangs out of his eyes and lightly caressing the side of his face.

“Fubuki.”

He’s relieved when Fubuki closes his eyes and leans into the touch, cold fingers curling around Ryou’s wrist to keep his hand there. He doesn’t say anything, but Ryou hadn’t expected him to. It always takes a while for him to start speaking again. In the meantime, he strokes his cheek, counting the seconds as though waiting for Fubuki to disappear again.

Eventually, he breaks the silence.

“May I?”

Anticipating that request, Fubuki nods, releasing Ryou’s wrist from his loose grip and shifting on the piano bench to make room. Ryou is careful to move slowly as he sits down beside him; with the half-aware state that Fubuki is currently in, the last thing he wants right now is to frighten him.

_(Not like he had the first night this happened, when Ryou had touched his arm without warning and Fubuki had all but collapsed, begging the shadow he suddenly resembled to stay away, to stop hurting him, please, please, **stop** —)_

Shoulder to shoulder like this, Ryou can feel the strange dichotomy of strength and weakness in Fubuki’s frame, the incomprehensible paradox of his incorporeal tangibility. He presses closer, checking to make sure that he’s really there, and Fubuki leans back into him as though replying.

_I’m here._

Even with the reassurance, though, he seems compelled to prove otherwise. Ryou can’t see his eyes when his head is tilted down like that, can only see the shadows that his long bangs cast, but he knows that he isn’t really seeing the world around him. Even Ryou, for all of his devotion and the bond they share, is barely enough to tether him here.

Perhaps it should bother him. Perhaps he should feel as though Fubuki is ungrateful or that he’s being selfish, but he doesn’t. Ryou is no stranger to grief and its potential ugliness, nor is he unfamiliar with the many ways that a person can be torn apart because of it. When it came to Ryou’s own struggles to stay present, Fubuki had never once faltered in his patience, had never once thought poorly of him for his doubts, for his fears, for the way he tried—and ultimately failed—to handle his pain. He was the light that guided him, the sun that warmed him, the gentle hands that dried his tears and held him close. He was everything he never knew he needed, but even then, it had been harder than it should’ve been to accept that.

Unlike him, Fubuki isn’t confused. He isn’t unfamiliar with kindness or unconditional love or someone _staying_ even after everyone else has left you alone, intentionally or otherwise. His distance is born of numbness, of disbelief, of despair. He’s disoriented, dragged unknowingly from a nightmare he’d accepted as his new life, and it shows in how he stumbles through the world he used to know so well.

_(And even then, he still smiles at Ryou, still holds his hand, still calls him **love.** No, to think for even a moment that he’s ungrateful would be the worst thing of all.) _

But there’s still something to be said for these moments, these...lapses of conscious thought. One second he’s at rest, his shoulder pressed comfortably against Ryou’s—the next second he’s stirring again, the movements almost trancelike as one of his hands drifts back to the keys. The motion is familiar by now, and Ryou knows what he’s going to play before he’s even touched them: two notes. Not a chord this time, not his song, but still a repeating pattern, steady and relentless. Ponderous. Deliberate. 

_Root. Fifth. Root. Fifth._ The sound echoes through the common area, foreboding and ominous. Like a chill up one’s spine, like a shadow over one’s eyes. Like footsteps, like the perpetual approach of something inevitable and unwanted. Every night, he plays those alternating fifths, and every night, Ryou feels tomorrow closing in on them. _Root. Fifth. Root. Fifth_. The endless, uncaring passage of time.

Time that claims them without desire, that drags them into their hopelessly unknown futures. Time that wounds just as easily as it heals, that drives them forward whether they are _with_ or _without_. Time that fades precious memories. Time that dispassionately forces them to confront their fears regardless of whether or not they’re prepared.

Time that had somehow slipped past Fubuki and left him behind.

He’s a year older without the experience to prove it, a year older without knowing what it means. Everything they were supposed to do together has gone by without incident, without notice—if Ryou feels like he just woke up one morning and was suddenly a few months away from graduating, he can’t imagine how Fubuki feels. Trapped in another world with no way of knowing how much time had passed, and then all of a sudden...

_Root. Fifth. Root. Fifth._ Tomorrow never stops coming. _Root. Fifth. Root. Fifth._ And Fubuki just can’t catch up.

But he doesn’t have to do this alone.

Carefully, Ryou reaches out. Reaches back, in a sense, threading his fingers through Fubuki’s and stilling his hand before he can continue the cycle. _I’m here._ He places his other hand on the nearby keys, softly tapping a few notes of the song Fubuki had written for him. _I’m waiting for you_. Fubuki’s fingers twitch under his own, seemingly wanting to finish the phrase, so Ryou plays it again. Sustains the last chord. Lifts his hand just enough to let him move, to let him end the cadence without a moment of hesitation. _I will never leave you behind._

Fubuki releases a shuddering breath, slowly but firmly. _I must get out of this._ He repeats the previous measure, then adds another. Another. Building a way out with every note he plays. _I must get out of this_. Ryou joins him on the octave below, supporting him when he stumbles, guiding him back to the right note, the right path, whenever his hand falters.

_Let’s go home_.

He doesn’t know long they play for, the same phrases, repeated measures, just the motif strung across the keys over and over again like Fubuki is calling his name. Like he’s searching for his light in the darkness, echolocation leading them together surely as a heartbeat in the silence.

_Let’s go home._

Ryou gently takes Fubuki’s hand and presses it to his lips, kissing the cold digits firmly before wrapping an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer. His lover allows himself to be drawn in, to be tucked against his side without complaint, and Ryou feels him exhale slowly as he settles there. His body is heavy where it leans on him. Solid. Ryou squeezes his shoulder to reassure himself of his presence, anyway.

“...sorry.”

Fubuki’s voice is rough from overuse, from sleep, from existing. It’s still his voice, though, and Ryou is relieved to hear it.

“ _Shh_ ,” he soothes him, stroking his hair. “You’re alright. You’re alright.”

He snuggles closer to him as though comforted by those frustratingly simple words. Ryou is not proud of how many steps backward he took after Fubuki disappeared, but he’s more than willing to claw his way up to where he was if it means he can return even a _scrap_ of the care that Fubuki gave him.

“You didn’t have to come down,” Fubuki starts, but Ryou shakes his head, pressing a kiss to his hairline.

“Where you go, I go,” he murmurs. “I want to be with you. And I can’t leave you alone when you’re like this.”

That was better. That felt a lot more sincere, bled out of him without thinking, and Fubuki responds to that. He hides his face in Ryou’s neck and hugs him tightly.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I...I forget things when I come here.”

_I know_ , Ryou thinks, holding him. _That’s why I always come and find you_. _Because you don’t forget what you need to, only that you’re still alive_.

“Let’s go back, then,” he says instead, a quiet suggestion. “Come with me.”

_Stay with me_.

Fubuki nods, although for a long moment, he doesn’t let go. Ryou rubs his back while he waits, patiently giving him the time to gather himself.

“...okay.”

He remains silent otherwise as Ryou leads him back upstairs, his eyes fixed on his own feet. He seems to be counting the steps it takes to reach the second floor, to reach Ryou’s room. _Root. Fifth. Root. Fifth._ He’s heavy despite his ghostly state. When he walks, he drifts, strange and uncertain. _Root. Fifth. Root. Fifth._ His hand is cold in Ryou’s, but when he squeezes it, Fubuki squeezes back. That means something.

_I must get out of this._

It’s only when he opens his door that Fubuki looks up, and maybe he’s imagining it, but his eyes seem a little brighter.

_Let’s go home._

In the safety of his bed, Ryou wraps Fubuki in his arms and strokes his hair, murmuring softly to him. _You’re alright. I’m right here. I’ll never let you go again._ His lover snuggles closer to his chest, buried in his warmth, always content to be in this place even when it feels like everything else is crashing down around him.

“Ryou?” Fubuki’s voice is tiny, and Ryou hums, encouraging him to continue. “...thank you for waiting for me.”

_For never giving up on me. For remembering me. For loving me in my absence. For still loving me now. For still wanting this—for still wanting **us**._

Ryou tucks a finger under his chin and tilts his face up, pressing their foreheads together.

“Always.” He assures him. “I would wait for you forever.”

Fubuki makes a small noise in the back of his throat, like a soft whimper, and it’s full of so much relief and longing that Ryou can’t help but kiss him. That’s the only thing he can think of to ease the dull ache in his chest, and the way that Fubuki threads his fingers through his hair as he desperately kisses him back makes it clear that he feels the same.

This kind of quiet hunger is something he’s accustomed to now, even more so than he was before. This all-consuming _need_ to be near Fubuki is a constant driving force, and Ryou can really feel it when they kiss. The yearning fills him from the inside out, and he pulls him closer, one hand on his waist. He’d missed him so much. _He’d missed him so much._

“I love you,” Ryou murmurs against his mouth, stroking his cheek when Fubuki makes that same sound again. He’s warm and soft and so, so familiar, and all Ryou wants to do is lose himself in this moment until everything is fine again. He wants to wake up somewhere else, somewhere beautiful, somewhere ten years down the road when they’re both happy and free and have left this dark, uncertain world behind.

“I love you, too.” Fubuki whispers, clinging to him tightly. “ _Ryou_. I love you, too.”

And it’s that tremor in his beloved’s voice, that trembling fear in his grip that reminds Ryou of reality. Just as time will not stop for them, neither will it allow them to move forward too quickly. They have to take this one day at a time, no matter how long or how difficult the road.

And despite how daunting that seems, he believes that they can do it. It isn’t too late for that.

Fubuki settles against his chest once more, listening to his heartbeat. Ryou kisses the top of his head and hums one of Fubuki’s favorite songs, something softer and sweeter, almost like a lullaby. It might not be enough to help Fubuki sleep, but he knows it’ll be enough to make him feel safe. To assure him that he’s loved. To remind him that his life isn’t over.

_Stay with me_.

Tomorrow morning, Ryou will awaken to Fubuki pressing soft kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, his lips—tomorrow, he will run his fingers through his beloved’s silky hair and cherish the way the early sunlight shines off of it, the way that Fubuki’s smile is more brilliant than ever. He will tell him that he’s beautiful, that he’s perfect, that he’s _everything_ , and tomorrow, Fubuki will believe him.

Tomorrow night, they will do this all over again. Fubuki will drift, and Ryou will catch him by the hand and pull him close and make him stay for one more day. He will tell him that they’ll make it, that they’ll be okay, that they promised to do this together before and that it isn’t too late for them now. He will sing to him. He will love him with everything he has left.

Tomorrow, the sun will be eclipsed once more, but tomorrow, things will be lighter than they were today. The world continues turning, time keeps passing, they wander and wait and refuse to give up—

—and soon, the sun will shine again.


End file.
